Dust in the Sky
by DreamsOfPari
Summary: One-shot. Unrelated to the show, I just used the characters. John and Sherlock are archealologists in Egypt. This is post-apocalyptic where very few people are left in the world. A mega storm had hit London and now our Baker Street Boys are digging up lost relics. Originally a paper for school. Johnlock. Definite fluff. Slight Dr Who reference :D just under 2000 words


**Dust in the Sky**

A thin bead of sweat slipped down my back, the tiny droplets forming a film over my forehead. My hair rested under the brim of my Bushman hat. Loose cottons and heavy leather hiking boots completed the hasty look. Raising my head, the wavering horizon continued in a long, endlessly deceptive line. _Bloody heat. _Lowering my head once again, I began to carefully chip away the desert ground, the small trowel just one of many essential equipment needed for the excavation. I wiped my damp forehead with a dusty cloth as another droplet ran down my nose.

Not ten feet from me, Sherlock crouched tirelessly, a delicate brush gripped in his long hands. Ivory skin glistened with sweat as he worked the Egyptian ground. Veins stood out on his forearms and dark hair curled out from under his bandana. As if sensing someone watching, Sherlock looked up from his dig. Our eyes locked for a split second before I quickly looked down, a scorching blush searing my already heated face. I peeked up from under the wide brim of my Bushman. Sherlock had already gone back to brushing the ground. But there it was, a small smile, just a little upturn at the corner. I let out a slow breath I hadn't known I was holding. Sighing, I got back to flaking off layer after layer of desert sand.

Four hours and a few more secret glances later, the dig had been all but utterly fruitless. The only recovered items being a single piece of broken computer chip, a scrap of tarnished metal, and an oblong piece of blue plastic. _Oh well, there's always tomorrow. _I snorted at thought; we were lucky _today_. After the Great Storm of 2060, the planet had been all but destroyed. Nobody knows the cause; scientists have been looking for an answer at least a decade now and still haven't found anything.

I was six when the Storm hit London. I don't remember much. Just the bunker being loud—and crowded, there were so many people. It felt like there was no air, I only breathed in bodies. I could remember hiding in a corner, as far back as I could manage in the cramped space. I know mum was with me as we waited to get in the bunker, but when we got to the gates she had disappeared. I waited and waited and waited for her to show up. It took me three days to finally realize she wouldn't be joining me. Later on I found out that only one person per family was allowed in the bunker. Mum had sacrificed herself so I could survive. I never saw her again after that day in line.

A silent tear cleared a path down my dusty cheek. Sherlock chose this moment to look back at me, and his bright eyes filled with an emotion I couldn't place. I wrenched a hand over my face, wiping the treacherous tear away, angry I had let him see me cry. Sherlock set his brush down and walked over to my dig site. I looked up, weary of his intentions. He sat down beside me and pulled my now shaking form into his lean arms, protection and comfort all in one. I turned my head into his shoulder, the dusty powder turning to a muddy mess from the salty water leaking from my eyes.

Sherlock only rested his cheek on top of my hair, my Bushman fallen somewhere on the desert floor. He murmured sweet nothings, giving what comfort he could. We stayed like that for a while, Sherlock's arms wrapped securely around my form with me resting in his lap. My arms had wound around his neck as I gave him my loss and sadness. And he took it all. The fear of those days in the bunker, the loneliness of the world after the Storm, the weeks spent repairing and building small shelters. I cried for Mum, for all the people not allowed in, I grieved the millions of people who had been lost in the Storm. For all the life wasted and loved ones ripped away.

As the sun made its lazy descent and the sky morphed into a window of reds and purples, my sobs changed into cries which changed into sniffles. Finally, I just lay there, wrapped up in Sherlock's arms. He had stopped whispering and instead opted for stroking the tangled mess that was my hair. Most of the others working on the dig had gone back to the shelter, but a few remained, cleaning up equipment and resetting for tomorrow. I could hear their shuffled foot steps on the sand.

I shifted so I could look Sherlock in the eyes. I started to say something, I'm not sure what, maybe apologize for what had just happened. But the words were silenced as he slowly bent down and pressed a soft kiss to my lips. It was sweet and filled with a love that could only be from someone who had experienced the same. Sherlock pulled back; another soft smile covering his handsome face. I closed my eyes and leaned into him again, this time resting my cheek on his chest. I felt right, perfect even. I don't know what will happen next, but right now I'm going to enjoy the moment.

xoxoxo

"I found something." Sherlock looked down so he could see me.

"What'd you find?" Curious, I moved out of his lap to sit beside him.

"I'll be right back." Sherlock stood up and walked the ten feet to his dig site. Bending down, he slid a bulky object out of his bag. He walked back over and set it in my hands. Sitting back down, he looked at me expectantly. I looked at the thing Sherlock had given me. It was a faded blue box, weather beaten and pages slipping out. A large folder. Carefully, I lifted the top cover. I gasped aloud in shock. My mouth hung open like a fish out of water.

"Sherlock! Where in the world did you find this!" He let out a soft chuckle, happiness evident in his eyes. The folder was filled with yellowed paper, each page covered with typed scrawl. The pieces were so old the black ink had turned a light brown. I laughed aloud, a smile stretching my cheeks. No one made paper anymore; there were hardly any trees left to make it with. We have so few plants left after the Storm anyway it would be suicide to waste even a sapling on making unnecessary products. This was a rare find indeed.

"Do you like it?" Sherlock asked me. I looked at him incredulously.

"Of course! How could I not! This is—this is amazing!" Sherlock let out another soft chuckle, laugh lines appearing at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. The sun had completely disappeared behind the horizon, leaving the desert sand cool and crisp beneath my fingers. Little stars appeared in the dark sky, coming in and out of focus as hazy clouds drifted across. The full moon glowed against the backdrop of night, bleaching our surroundings. It seemed like we were in a black and white photo.

The pages reflected the moonlight, giving an eerie gleam to the aged folder. I turned to the middle, Sherlock looking over my shoulder. Tucked into a purple plastic sheet, were a clump of papers of various sizes. Unhooking the rusty folder rings, I gently slid the purple pocket out. One of the papers inside was a poem entitled _Home. _I paused, there was no home now. Nothing left but plastic scraps and memories.

"Will you read it aloud?" Sherlock's whisper floated on the soft breeze, caressing my ear. I nodded and quietly recited a verse of the poem.

" 'Swirl of king cake. Shine of beads. Spice of cinnamon. Stroll of lovers.'" I blushed at the last line. Were we lovers now? It had just been one kiss after all, one moment. Yet here we are. Wrapped up in each other's arms, reading old poems by Egypt's moonlight. It was romantic yes, but it felt—_it felt right. _There, I said it. Being with Sherlock made the butterflies play and _it felt right. _

"John? Are you all right?" Sherlock's voice broke me out of my thoughts.

"Hmmm? Yeah, I'm fine." He frowned for a second, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. "Read some more?" I smiled, more than willing to discover what secrets the faded folder kept. Careful not to disturb the relics any more than necessary, I turned back a few pages. Another poem of faded ink greeted us with curled edges. This one called _Where I'm From. _

" 'I am from faded Polaroids and digital cameras. From a beaded wedding dress carefully pressed and protected and set aside... I am from fields of fireweed that appear like an endless sea of pink dreams waiting for midnight' " I stopped reading and looked back at Sherlock.

"I wonder what this person's name is." After the lyrical poems, talking normally sounded harsh and loud in the quiet of night.

"Well, there's only one way to find out." Sherlock gently closed the folder and reopened it to the first page. In the preternatural light, the antique orange paper took on a bluish hue. On the top left hand corner, a name was scrawled in neat pen. _Molly Hooper._ With a surprised smile, I turned to face Sherlock. "Do you think—do you think this is her?" He looked over at the moon, contemplating, the sound practically echoing in the still desert. Sherlock shook his head, the bouncy curls swaying back and forth.

"Unlikely. Pure coincidence." I sighed, he was right. There was no way Molly could have gone back in time before the Storm and survived. _Time travel in London. Sounds familiar. _I shook my head, impossibilities are endless. I found myself wishing to stay here under the moon with Sherlock forever. Randomly choosing a page to flip to, I read the title. _Technology: The Harbinger of Doom. _I let out a giggle, "Harbinger of Doom? Dramatic much?"

"Okay, so we know she's dramatic, and loves poems. Oh, and likes details." I offered as commentary.

"Yes, yes. But that's all obvious. That doesn't tell us anything about _her._ Anyone looking at the tattered papers can tell this Molly was a writer. Complete with details and creativity with hints of seriousness. But in order to go deeper, to get into the soul, the human aspect of Molly, one must look not only at the writing style, but the contents as well." Sherlock shifted next to me. "John, we should go back now. It's really late." I faced him, a full pout on my lips.

"We can't go back _now. _It just got interesting!" Sherlock chuckled, the sound sending delicious shivers down my spine.

"Are you cold?" I hadn't realized it until he said something, but my arms and legs were covered in tight goose bumps, not entirely from the cold. I sighed in defeat.

"Fine, we can go. But tomorrow we will continue this." Sherlock smiled and stood up, offering me his hand. I took it and just as I was about to hoist myself from the ground, Sherlock pulled hard and I flew up, right into his arms. I was breathless from the ride and without any thought I reached up on tiptoes and pressed a kiss right on his mouth.

xoxoxo

With dust in the sky, we walked hand in hand away from our moonlit paradise; tomorrow another day will have passed and Molly would reveal a few more of the heart's secrets.


End file.
